


Harry Potter and the Crush He Did Not Ask For

by JAPD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Dark Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Humor, James Potter Lives, Lily Evans Potter Lives, M/M, Tom Riddle's Diary, What's new?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAPD/pseuds/JAPD
Summary: Harry Potter's sixth year if he wasn't the BWL, his parents were still alive, and Voldemort was killed years ago by Albus Dumbledore. Some things never change, including Harry being obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy being the leader of an evil faction, and his son following dutifully in his footsteps.Harry just wants to recover from his ordeal with the diary in peace. He didn't ask to suddenly start noticing the way Malfoy's hair gleamed in the sunlight, or how his shirt was always unbuttoned just enough to show off a tantalising sliver of his chest. Nope, Harry was doing just fine playing quidditch, doing his homework, making no noise, and trying to convince himself that Draco Malfoy didn't exist.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided that the absence of Voldemort means I can play fast and loose with some facts, e.g. Angelina was born a year later and is therefore still Quidditch Captain in sixth year, and Ron has a lot more confidence seeing as the Prewett bank account was not battered by Voldemort's rise. If you notice any other inconsistencies, then please assume they are entirely intentional. 
> 
> This was a mini plot-bunny that popped into my head as I was having a doze after a large meal. Fully intend to continue it if anyone reads it and cares about what happens. So on that note, hope you enjoy!

Harry took an apple from the fruit platter. It was shiny and green, a plastic sheen to its surface, and it crunched satisfyingly as he took a bite. 

“So,” Ron said, using his carrot batons to construct a miniature quidditch pitch on his plate, “I know Vaisey has a wicked arm, but if Alicia can block him on the left and Ginny circles around to the right…” he plonked two roast potatoes into position, the golden crust softening in the gravy. “Then, bam! He’s forced to throw to the middle, I catch it, lob it down the centre to Angelina and score!” Ron’s freckled face beamed in delight as he threw a pea across his plate. “They won’t know what hit them!” 

“Hmm,” Harry replied, distracted. Hermione shifted in her seat opposite him and he instinctually leaned to the right to keep Malfoy in his line of sight. “That sounds good, Ron. You should mention it to Angelina.” 

Ron grimaced. “Ah,” he said. “I don’t want to rock the boat. First match of the year and that. You’ve been on the team longer mate, I was thinking it would come better from you.” 

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione huffed, her face obscured behind the large tome she was holding in front of her voice. “You’re never going to get Quidditch Captain next year if you don’t display any leadership qualities.” 

Ron threw one of his peas at Hermione. It flew over her book, lodging into the tight curls visible over the top of her book. She slowly lowered the tome, a scowl affixed on her face. “Come on Harry,” she said, words gritted from between her teeth. “Let’s go to Runes.” 

“Already?!” Ron cried, glancing between the two of them. He gestured at his gravy and roast masterpiece. “We’ve still got another fifteen minutes of lunch and I’ve got five more strategies I wanted to run through with Harry!” 

Hermione pulled the pea from her hair, disdainfully flicking the vegetable onto her plate. “Go bother Ginny,” she said, jerking her head irritably down the table. “Or better yet, Angelina.” She picked up her bag from the floor, clutching her books to her chest. “Come on Harry. I want to get the construct set up before the lesson so we can ask the Professor for advice on the next stage as soon as she arrives. Turpin and Boot monopolised her all last lesson.”

Harry tore his gaze away from the Slytherin table, blinking vapidly at Hermione. “You do realise she’ll give us extra help out of class time, right?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, shifting the weight of her books in her arms. “That’s called an unfair advantage, Harry,” she addressed him sternly. “We will be winning the prize on our own merits, not nepotism.” She glanced nastily behind her, at the Slytherin table. “Now, come on!” 

Harry hastily stuffed a few potatoes into his mouth, shooting a garbled, “Sorry Ron,” behind him. Ron waved forlornly back, already searching the table for someone else to use as a Quidditch sounding board.

Harry slung his bag onto his back as hurried after Hermione, the heavy weight of the strap digging into his shoulder. Before he left the Hall, he glanced over one last time to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was sat there, arrogantly straddling the bench, his blond head lazily leant on Parkinson’s shoulder. He was listening to Zabini tell a story, and his pale eyes were dancing with mirth. Harry was so fixated on Malfoy that he did notice Parkinson looking at him, not until she smirked nastily in his direction. Harry quickly glanced back to the front, his cheeks feeling hot as he rushed out of the Hall. 

The Ancient Runes classroom was on the fourth floor, a large airy room decorated with several large windows facing the lake. On a day like this, an October afternoon, light was streaming into the classroom and pooling onto the stone floor. The Professor was already there, stood beside an open window, the breeze ruffling the voluminous sleeves of her emerald robe and the long strands of her russet hair. She turned as they entered, smiling softly at them. 

“Professor Potter!” Hermione exclaimed, rushing to the desk at the front. She tipped her books onto the surface, scrambling within in them to pull out sheathes of parchment. Runes and diagrams were packed tightly across the surface, in both Hermione’s neat writing and Harry’s scrawl. “I’m so glad you are here early!” Hermione continued, her voice brimming with enthusiasm, “Harry and I have been really stuck on the next part of the transformation, on how to incorporate time into the animation. It keeps getting stuck as a static image every time we activate it…”

Hermione continued her rambles as she gesticulated wildly, and over her head, Harry’s mum smiled at him before she devoted her attention to the parchment. She picked the papers up, her forehead furrowing as she studied the lines of algorithms attentively. 

Harry wandered over to stand beside them, letting his bag fall to the floor as he approached the desk. He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking backwards onto the balls of his feet as he nodded along to Hermione’s demanding questions and his mother’s patient explanations. He liked the practical applications of Runes, the flashy end results; awe-inspiring illuminations and impenetrable wards. He had been excited for this term’s project, building a never-ending animation, a three-dimension illusionary scene that would run forever once activated. But the process to get there required painstaking effort and detail, a mind-numbing methodical approach, and Harry knew he would have dropped the subject after his OWLs if he hadn’t been scared of hurting his mum’s feelings. 

Feet echoed on stone as new arrivals entered the classroom, and without looking, Harry recognised the light, athletic footsteps before he heard the drawling voice that accompanied them. Runes being one of only two classes he shared with Malfoy also played a part in his reluctance to drop the subject. 

Harry concentrated harder on the papers in front of him, refusing to glance behind him as he heard wooden chairs scrape on the stone. He knew where Malfoy would be sitting. It would be where he was always sat, in the middle row, second from the end. Zabini would be flanking one side of him, his gleaming teeth flashing a smile at a blushing Patil in the next row. Nott would be behind them, sat with Parkinson, her already short skirt riding up higher as she stretched it out to poke Malfoy’s arm from where it slung casually over the back of his chair. He would twist to grin at her, languidly tilting his head as he grasped her socked calf in his hand, his tie loose around the crisp neck of his shirt. 

Harry’s fists clenched as, right on cue, he heard Parkinson’s high-pitched giggles echo around the room. 

“Do you understand now, why it will work better if you place Socrates’ version of the time rune before this line, rather than Theon’s? I agree, it is far more reductive, when fleshing out the mainframe, but it works rather well at the construct stage.” Lily Potter smiled at Hermione, twirling a quill between her fingers as she spoke. 

Hermione nodded vigorously, her curls shaking with her head, her eyes wide as she hung onto every word her favourite Professor uttered. “Absolutely!” she exclaimed, her expression devoted, “Thank you so much, Professor Potter, that makes perfect sense to me now.”

“I’m glad,” Lily replied, tucking her hair behind her ear as she glanced over at her son. She paused, frowning as she noticed his surly expression. “Harry?” she asked, her voice sharpening with concern. “Are you okay?” She lowered her voice, glancing around nervously as she continued. “The headaches haven’t started again, have they? Shall I tell Dumbledore?”

Harry flushed, embarrassed. “No mum,” he said quickly, rushing to reassure her. “It’s nothing, honestly.”

“Are you sure?” his mum asked, peering closely at him.

Hermione was staring at him too. “He has been looking a bit spaced, recently,” she offered nervously. 

Lily looked at her with alarm as Harry scowled. “What?” he scoffed. “When?!”

Hermione’s back stiffened. “Ever since we got back,” she retorted. “Especially during meal-times.” 

Harry groaned internally. “Look, it’s not that,” he bit out, irritated. “Honestly, I promise.” He looked at his mum, his anger softening as he remembered last year, everything that had happened, and the pained looks she had given him all summer, heavy with the memory of finding him half-dead on the Chamber floor. She had blamed herself, he knew, thinking the divorce had left him vulnerable to the diary’s influence. “I’m just-,” Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He felt flushed and embarrassed. “It’s just normal teenage stuff,” he grunted. “I promise.”

When he looked up, his mother’s gaze had transformed, her eyes amused and her lips quirking into a smile. “Ah,” she said, her voice lowering to a whisper, “I get it.” She tapped her nose with her finger, winking at him. 

Harry flushed further as she swept off, her robes billowing behind her as she took her place behind her desk. He and Hermione sat down, and she leant in to whisper furiously at him, “What did that mean? What teenage thing?” 

Harry refused to answer, staring ahead as his mum started the class and Hermione was forced to fall silent. 

He was already the freak of the school this year, the boy who was possessed by the remnants of a Dark Lord killed years ago. He didn’t need everyone to know about his pathetic crush on Draco Malfoy too.


	2. Chapter 2

The note appeared with a silent poof next to his porridge. There was no fanfare, no gust of air, no chimes and bells signalling its arrival. It was not there, and then, like it had never not been there, it was there. Harry stared at it idly, the sounds of Hermione and Ron bickering in the background familiar and soothing. He had become familiar with the feeling of time stalling, of having one foot in reality and one planted in a dreamworld. It had become ordinary for him, something his friends teased him about, Seamus asking if he was turning into Luna Lovegood and Hermione shaking her head in exasperation when he turned up to classes with missing assignments. His parents had commented on how he wasn’t so moody anymore, how impressed they were with how well he was taking their separation. 

It hadn’t been so funny when he had lost his grip of the two worlds he was straddling. When the diary had yanked him viciously under the currents of the dream to drown. 

“Harry?” Hermione said, nudging him. “What’s that?”

Harry looked at her, then followed her gaze right back to where he had been originally staring. “Dunno,” he said, plucking the note from the table. He let his spoon fall back into the porridge and the creamy liquid splashed, hot droplets flying to land on the parchment.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Harry muttered, shaking the note rapidly, attempting to save it from a sodden doom.

Hermione sighed, pointing her wand at the parchment. A gust of air circled around it, hot and breezy, and the parchment was clean. 

“Woah!” Ron exclaimed from across the table, a fork-full of eggs halfway to his face. “Was that non-verbal?” 

Hermione smiled, pleased. “Yes,” she replied, primly. 

Ron put his fork down and stared at her with a pleading expression. “Hermione, mate, you have got to teach me how to do that. I’m getting bollocked in every lesson. Snape has us partnering off with the Slytherins and he won’t let us even defend ourselves unless its non-verbal.” Ron winced, a vivid memory of pain painted on his expression. “I can’t go to Madam Pomfrey with any more boils for her to pop. Its humiliating.”

Hermione’s expression was revolted. She curled her lip. “Maybe, Ron, you should try practicing yourself.” 

“Oh, come on Hermione,” Ron whined. “It’s so much easier when you teach it.” 

“I have things to do Ron!” she shrieked across the table. “You know I’m trying to get the Ministry placement for next summer, and no one’s going to give it to someone without any connections unless I prove I’m better than all of them!” She spread her hand wide, gesturing at the Hall at large, but Harry knew who she meant. 

Harry shifted awkwardly, the note still clenched in his fist. People like Ron, with his uncles the forefront name in magical entertainment. People like him, with his father the youngest Head Auror in history, his godfather the head of one of the wealthiest magical families in Britain, and his mother a Hogwarts Professor. Life was easy for him, or so everyone said. He and Ron looked at each other across the table. 

“I’ll practice with you, Ron,” Harry said abruptly. He smiled weakly at the both of them. “I’m pretty hopeless at non-verbal spells too.” 

Hermione was still breathing hard, but she appeared to have calmed somewhat. “There,” she said, glaring between the two, “you can sort out things yourself.” She stood up, picking her bag up from beneath the table. “I’m going to the library.”

They watched her stride off, and when she was far away enough, Ron let a slow whistle escape from behind his teeth. “Merlin,” he said, his eyes wide. “She needs to chill.” 

Harry stirred his porridge with his spoon. It had cooled and become lumpy. “She has a point, Ron,” he said. “You know internships like that were made with Purebloods in mind.” 

Ron shrugged, the easy shrug of someone who had never personally felt prejudice or hardship. “I mean, yeah, people like the Malfoys will always have money to grease the wheels, but things have changed. Most of the Ministry is muggleborns or half-bloods.”

Harry pointed his spoon at Ron. “That’s exactly what my dad always used to say to my mum. It would drive her crazy. Because it doesn’t matter how many muggleborns they have in the low-ranking jobs, what matters is that the positions with power are almost exclusively held by people with connections and lineage.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Mate, I’m impressed. You sounded as smart as Hermione.” 

Harry shook his head. “I’m being serious, Ron. Do you know why my mum kept her married name, even after the divorce? 

Ron shrugged his shoulders, spearing a sausage with his fork. 

“She did change it, Ron. Especially after she found out about my dad and Greengrass. But her articles started getting rejected by publishers, and she couldn’t get a booking at any half-decent restaurant for months.” Harry sighed, glancing up at the head table, where his mother was sat next to Professor Snape. “She started using Potter again and instantly everything went back to normal.” 

Ron frowned. “Maybe that’s just because they didn’t know who Lily Evans was?” he suggested. “They just didn’t recognise her? I’m sure if she had always used that name, she wouldn’t have had any problems.” 

Harry sighed. It was impossible. “Sure, Ron,” he said, swallowing the bitter taste on his tongue. “That might actually be it.” 

Ron smiled at him, his freckly face guileless. “So,” he said, his words garbled around his breakfast. “What’s in the note?”

Harry glanced down, surprised, almost having forgotten about it entirely. He unravelled the parchment from where it had been clamped tightly in his fist, and scanned the loopy writing etched across it. “Dumbledore,” he said shortly. “He wants me to meet him after breakfast.” 

Harry glanced up at the head table. The elderly headmaster was nowhere to be found. 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “You think it’s about…?” he jerked his head. 

Harry picked up a spoonful of porridge. He forced it into his mouth, the texture thick and like gruel. “Yeah, I mean…” Harry swallowed, staring into his bowl. “Why else, right?” 

Harry trudged towards Dumbledore’s office, meandering past the sixth and seventh years lounging in the alcoves and the stragglers to class racing past him. He reached the gargoyle and paused, staring at its ugly face. It loomed over him, brassy and tall. He knew the way, everyone did, but he had never been inside before.

“Hi,” he said to the gargoyle, feeling very silly as he addressed as an inanimate object. “I’m here to see Professor Dumbledore?” 

The gargoyle stared back, impassive, and Harry scratched his head. 

The gargoyle suddenly leapt into action and Harry jumped, almost tripping on his shoes. It revealed a spiral staircase, and slowly, with a sigh, Harry trudged forwards. 

The steps were narrow and tightly wound, and his footsteps echoed loudly on the stone. His knocks on the door were paltry in comparison.

“Come in, Mr Potter.” 

“Hello Professor Dumbledore,” Harry said, as he gingerly sat down in the chair facing the desk. The office was filled to the brim with vibrating, shiny objects and he was finding it hard to control the urge to gape open-mouthed around him. Fred and George would love this place. 

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. “Ah,” he said, his voice rumbling, “I always forget how my office appears to those new to it.”

Harry ducked his head. “Yeah, erm, I should have remembered, actually.” He dragged his toes into the colourful rug. “My dad’s mentioned it.” 

“Hmm,” said the elderly Professor, staring at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. His blue eyes were dancing with amusement. “Yes, Mr Potter and Mr Black. They gave the staff quite the run around in their day. I did indeed have them in my office more than enough times for them to be familiar with it.” He leaned forwards, steeping his long, wrinkled fingers atop his desk. “But you, Mr Potter, have not held quite the same legacy.” 

Harry grimaced. 

Professor Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “It was not a criticism,” he stated. 

“No, I know,” Harry replied, awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just, well,” he sighed, not sure how to best explain. “I’ve grown up with stories of the Marauders’ legacy. It’s not me who’s disappointed I haven’t continued it.” 

Professor Dumbledore sighed. “Ah,” he sighed, resting his chin atop his fingers. “I see.”

Harry looked away from studying his hands to shoot a glance at his professor. “Do you?” he challenged.

“Of course. My mother was famous for her Baked Jarvey Tarts. She was rather aggrieved when I did not show the same interests in the culinary arts.”

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He wasn’t sure that Professor Dumbledore hadn’t just made that up. 

Professor Dumbledore smiled placidly back. 

“So, Sir,” Harry said. “You wanted to see me.”

“Ah yes.” The Headmaster smiled kindly at Harry. “So I did.” 

Harry resisted the urge to sigh, impatient. Professor Dumbledore’s wand was resting on the desk, and Harry stared at it, examining the curious protrusions set along its length. He looked back at the Headmaster. The professor was gazing at him, his stare piercing and his expression solemn. Harry shifted, uncomfortable. 

“I wanted to check how you were doing, Mr Potter. After the rather unfortunate events of last year.” 

This time, Harry couldn’t help it. He openly snorted. “Unfortunate,” he muttered. “That’s one way of putting it.” 

Professor Dumbledore sighed. “Perhaps I am treating you too delicately, Mr Potter. It is all too easy to forget that you have faced an evil that witches and wizards over twice your age have not.” 

Harry looked out the window. In the distance, he could just about make out the tops of the Quidditch hoops. “Because they’re not stupid enough to be taken in by it.” 

“Harry,” Professor Dumbledore said, and Harry stared at him, surprised as the Professor used his given name. “Almost every witch and wizard who challenged Lord Voldemort failed.” The elderly Professor’s gaze was stern with sincerity. “I knew him as you did, as a Hogwarts student too. His true nature went undetected even then.”

Harry stared at his Professor. “Except for you?” he asked. 

Professor Dumbledore looked away. His shoulders drooped and his brow became heavy. “You may be surprised to hear this, Mr Potter, but I have made many mistakes in my lifetime. Many more than people care to remember. One of them was Tom Riddle.” Professor Dumbledore sighed, facing Harry with a grave expression. “I ignored it for far too long. By the time I dealt with it, it was almost too late.”

“But it wasn’t too late,” Harry said, suddenly filled with the urge to defend his Professor, even if from himself. “My parents used to talk about it all the time. How different their lives might have been if you hadn’t left Hogwarts to track him down.”

Professor Dumbledore smiled at him, his face lighting up. “Your words are very kind,” he said. 

Harry felt uncomfortable at the praise. 

“I just wanted you to know, Mr Potter, that I was very impressed with the bravery you showed last year. Not many people could have withstood the will of Lord Voldemort. Many more people could have died if you hadn’t found a way, even under his control, to send a message to your friends.”

“But someone did die,” Harry said. 

Professor Dumbledore sighed, shuttering his eyes briefly. “We will all mourn the loss of Cedric Diggory. But, Mr Potter, it was not your fault. Tom Riddle is the only person responsible for the death of Mr Diggory.”

Harry looked down at his hands. Guilt felt hot in his stomach. “Yeah,” he replied. “Okay.”

The elderly headmaster leant forwards, scrutinising him. They sat in silence, the only interruption the quiet ticking and chiming of the Headmaster’s contraptions. 

“I’ve got Charms next,” Harry said. “Is it okay if I…?” 

The Headmaster sighed. “Of course, Mr Potter. I don’t wish to keep you. But I want you to know my door is open any time you wish to talk.”

“Thanks Professor,” Harry mumbled, as he sped out of the door. 

His steps were loud and hurried as he strode away from the gargoyle, almost running. He felt hot and sweaty, his heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears. He didn’t like talking about it, he didn’t want to talk about it. It made the nightmare real, reminded him it had actually happened, made him as feel as though the dark sludge that had dragged him under was still waiting there, at the fringes of his consciousness. 

He could almost hear him, the silky voice, whispering his name, “Harry…”

“Hey!” a voice exclaimed, clipped, as Harry hit something hard. He tripped, and the contents of his bag sprawled over the floor. He looked up, startled. 

“Potter,” the same voice said, dripping with disdain. It was Blaise Zabini, his handsome face twisted with disgust. “Don’t you look where you’re going?”

“Sorry,” Harry bit out. “Wasn’t looking.”

“Hey Potter!” came a voice behind Zabini, from the throng of Slytherins reclining in the alcove behind. A figure came forwards, strolling to Zabini’s side, and Harry’s heart dropped.

“Potter,” Draco Malfoy drawled, his hands in his pockets and his fringe in his eyes. “I think you dropped something.”

Harry scowled at him, over the heat in his cheeks. “Yeah, I’m aware,” he replied. He quickly crouched to the ground, stuffing his possessions back into his bag. 

Malfoy sauntered forwards and prodded the spine of a textbook with his shoe. “Any of these holding the spirit of a dead Dark Lord, Potter?” 

Harry’s breath caught. He bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to answer.

Malfoy tried again. “Will you be coming to the Malfoy Yule Ball with your father and his new wife? Now that he’s part of the right side of society again.” 

Harry swept the last of his possessions into his bag, standing up and slinging it onto his shoulder. He looked at Zabini, pointedly ignoring Malfoy next to him. “Sorry for running into you, Zabini. Won’t happen again.”

Zabini nodded, and Harry turned, walking away. 

“You should come, Potter!” Malfoy shouted behind him, sounding almost desperate to elicit a reaction now. “It might be your last chance. You won’t be invited when you’re not the Potter Heir.”

Harry stopped in his tracks. He turned, and Malfoy looked triumphant, his high cheekbones flushed. Harry hated how handsome he looked. “Yeah, Malfoy,” he said. “How’d you figure that?”

Malfoy crossed his arms. “You may not know this, Potter, but Heirship goes to the most eligible child. And blood purity supersedes age.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “And? Get to the point.”

His pale eyes flashed. “My mother is good friends with the Greengrass matriarch, Potter.” Malfoy smiled, and Harry noticed the rest of the Slytherins were deathly quiet. “She says one of her daughters is pregnant.” 

Pansy Parkinson leaned forwards from the alcove she was sitting in, yelling, “I’ll give you a hint, Potter! It’s not Daphne who’s getting a new sibling!”

Malfoy was watching him, smug, delighting in the way Harry had paled. “So, is it true, Potter?” he crowed. “Is it true that your dad hasn’t even bothered to tell you yet?”

Harry spun on his heel, racing away, laughter echoing behind him.


End file.
